carry on.i count milesby the cracks in the sidewalkthat i try to step on(old habits die hard)andby cigarette buts thrown like Hansel & Gretel's crumbs down main st;count them by how many times i think of youand how many timesi wish i hadn't (those numbers are neck and neck).someday not so far from nowi know that i'll wind up to bethe monster i always said i wouldn't,and i'll sit back, mind a million miles away because i just want to keep going.
.a scalpel fromwrist to elbow-you will not beliving under myskin anymore
The art of self-destruction.I have spentmy whole life perfectingself-destruction,how to separate myinsides from theoutsides without ascar to show.My arms have beenweapons instead of shieldsand I have built no otherwalls to defend me.I grew up inthis house of fleshand instead of tendingto its needs I havebeen letting peopleset it on fire insteadof loving me.
train tickets are like 200 bucks.i loved her forthe miles between us,and i think i might always do so.she is printed in my mind,upside-downlike some halfbreed stoner dreamand i feel her colors likesun. rain. hurricane. leaves side vertically in my veins, the left side of a bicycle wheeling around my brainand she is a fucking drug, man.i think i'm gay.i'm not saying that just tosay it, either. i justwonder.why else would i write letters to hereven though she'll never read them,and why do i wonder how she looksright on the verge of sleep? i think about kissing hera lot. it's always her. she is my now. my then. my way bak when. but most of all, she is mywhy, and that is fucking fantastic.
s. Midnight came like a storm. I watched it take him by the waist and drag him away, fingers clawing at his sheets and shivers climbing over his limbs-- fever dreams. Moans died out in the back of his throat. I sat still as a winter night on the foot of his bed and didn't wake him, because the only thing worse for him than being eclipsed in a nightmare was being awake for one. We all know that. People told me that there was no way that I could have seen the signs; no way to know what he was doing behind closed doors. But they didn't know that I did know. I saw the marks on his arms; not just the ones made by a needle, but the ones that ran horizontal for miles down not just his arms, and the ones I knew father made (another thing that I knew). I was there when he tried to dissect his wrist the first time, and I joined in with the echoes of 'oh my god I had no idea' and 'what a shame'. We used to sit by the fir
.here i am, six feet under andstill singing about coughing lighters andmidnight storms.
.how to comfort someonewith an anxiety disorder: tell them to grow up.god knowsthat they only panic because they're just not old enoughto handle themselves. say that it's notthat bad.because, hey,since it's not bad for you,it can't be for them. that's just how it works,right?"calm down".this oneis my personal favorite.because the one thingthat i want to hearwhen i'm choking on my own sweatand heartis that i need to calm down.
,i used to part my hair down the middle,but then i stoppedwhen i was twelvebecause innocencewas heavy,or something likethat.besides,we all have to grow up,don't we?
.i.if i were tocapture the sky, put itin a box and mail it to you,i wonder if you would smile. ii. it's always too coldin my room. the wood bites my solesand the windows clog mysoul. iii.this winter, i beganto ache for somethingi never knew i wanted. my skin grewdry and elastic, andi imagined you kissing meunderneath a willow tree. iiii.my best friend isfucking up, and iam watching. it's allthat i can do, andi can't help but wishthat he would straighten out,because i want him in my life.not just now: i mean10 years from now. iiiii.i think that everyone i once lovedhates me. i can only praythat you don't turn out thesame way.
six steps to fixing youstep onecry. scream. bang your fists against the wallsthat keep you locked inside.kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupidand wrong and that you've never loved her.cry. scream. apologize via him to you.let your tears catch on your lashesuntil you can no longer see anything but your owndemise. taste the bitterness left inyour mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.step twobreak a mug. break two. kickthe pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.break a finger because nothing can take away thissort of pain. you are empty and yetyou are filled with so much anger.break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.step threeyou are okay, you tell them.you break three days later and you liein bed, unable to move.step fourstart picking up the pieces. clean up the messyou've made and he's left.use windex to polish off the dirt and
.i will notlove for fearof losingand if afondnessshould creepthrough likeivy, i'll cut itback
For ScienceBrought toaster to bathtub.Shocking results.
you're just a question marki met you so long agobut back then our bodies were made of metaland nowadays they’re made of the blades ofgrass and dirt settlingunderneath my fingernails.my fingers are having a hard timereaching the keys andmy organs are shaking mostly because i haven’teaten in two days but alsobecause i’m worried about the things you're doing to yourself.we didn’t meet very long ago at all but it feels like forever agoand you say you don’t know methat you don’t know anyonebut baby you're turning into a skeleton and i’m peeling back my skinto try and reach my bones, just like you.i hope you're happy,i’m covering the hard wood floors nowthe bits and pieces splattered.they are calling it a suicide but i’m calling ita way to see my brain andjust how dark it has become, and honestlyi don’t want you to try and see about your’s.i’m mourning the loss of my heart and wish you weren’t either -you’re gone
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.don't come to me at 2amwhen your heart starts to splitits nuts and boltsand your eyes are threatening toburst their banksi will be too busy trying tosolder my ownlaying down sandbags and prayingthe tide comes no higher
we aren't well-written.i can envision time fluxing backwards:words snuffed, swallowing dreams,choking on the catatonic fear thatyou just might love someone a bitmore than you love me.maybe if i destroy those damnedstars, you won't have anythingelse to write about.
my bones awashed on the shorejonah was a man made up ofsalt and stone and piecesof driftwood he found carved withhearts and letters of teenage boys'and girls' names. he wasmore than his chicken leg bones andsagging skin, and the neighborhoodkids thought he was theghost of ol' samson, but he was justninety-eight and pushing it.jonah was a man who likedto wear his mother's curtains as clothesand used moth-eaten tableclothsas blankets during the chilly nights.he had this kind of gleam in hisold, dull gray eyes. he thought he'dbuild himself a boat andset it on the ocean and maybe he wouldfind someone out there.jonah didn't quite know who he was, yet.the neighborhood wives thatbrought him home-cooked dishes in bigpans to eat always told himthat he was no longer sane.but jonah said that sometimessanity had less to do with the mind andmore to do with the people.and on a warm tuesday,he draped his mother's old tableclotharound his shoulders and bundled up in a curtain, left h
To Be ThinYour eyelashes fallon tablecloth cheekbones;fine, white linen,heavily pressedto an unsustainable point.Your tears spilland stain the cloth,cheetah spotsof grey, of grey,spoiling that unattainable dream.
i'm not a liar.i was told to stopburning bridges. just the same;i'd rather drive offof them.